


Homecoming

by SpellCleaver



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Medieval, And Also Murderous For Them, Darth Vader Is Soft For His Family, Fantasy AU, Gen, exchange fic, he's made some bad decisions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 05:40:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28648440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpellCleaver/pseuds/SpellCleaver
Summary: Prince Luke Naberrie of Naboo was just captured in battle and delivered to Lord Vader, the invader who claimed his homeland for the Empire.He has not seen his father in ten years. And he does not expect their inevitable reunion to go the way it will.
Relationships: Firmus Piett & Luke Skywalker, Leia Organa & Luke Skywalker, Luke Skywalker & Darth Vader, Padmé Amidala & Luke Skywalker, Padmé Amidala/Darth Vader
Comments: 47
Kudos: 276
Collections: 2020 Star Wars Luke & Vader Winter Exchange





	Homecoming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissChrisDaae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissChrisDaae/gifts).



> This fic was written for the Luke & Vader fic exchange, organised by SilverDaye; thank you so much to Silver for your hard work on this! This has been so much fun to participate in.
> 
> I wrote this for the lovely MissChrisDaae, based on three prompts:  
> \- You will be Emperor.  
> \- Don't I mean anything to you?  
> \- Tell me about my mother / your sister.
> 
> I hope she, and everyone else, enjoys it!
> 
> And finally, a thousand thank yous to [Severnlight](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severnlight/pseuds/Severnlight) for beta reading and providing feedback! As ever, it was absolutely invaluable <3

Theed was a shining jewel on the horizon—one that made Luke swallow, hard. It was his home, and he was glad to see it… _intact_ … but the thin columns of smoke that still snaked up from some of the turrets made him nervous.

That… that was his home.

They— the Empire had—

He stumbled over a rut in the road, nearly brought to his knees in the mud and the… other thing, but his escort gripped his upper arm tightly and caught him halfway down. Luke hissed out his breath between his teeth and shivered, trying not to look at the man.

To no avail. Piett's gaze bore into him, until he raised his chin and said with stiff, twinging facial muscles, "Thank you."

Piett jerked, then, blinking—he clearly hadn't noticed he was staring. He glanced away for a moment to compose himself before he asked, "Are you alright, Your Highness?"

"I am fine, thank you."

"That's the third time in the last ten minutes you've tripped in the mud, Highness."

"And the third time you've caught him, Piett." The general of the company snapped the words—he was riding slightly ahead of him on a magnificent steed Luke was pretty sure he recognised from the Palace stables. He hoped the horse threw him off. "Let him fall, he is an enemy of the Empire—"

"We need him in ideal shape to present to Lord Vader," Piett insisted, and Luke's stomach plummeted. He— he didn't—

"I do not know why," he said, trying to sound haughty. Leia was better at this than him, a better _heir_ than him—she was born to be a princess. "My mother will not exchange anything for me, and as you have already captured Theed—"

"Then I suppose it will be a swift execution for you, won't it?" the general—Ozzel, was it?—mocked. "That will serve our cause just as well as any hostage exchange. Naboo's great warrior prince, on his knees…"

Luke tensed. Piett's grip on Luke's arm tightened.

"We both know that that will not happen," he murmured.

Luke gritted his teeth.

He remembered Piett.

He wished he didn't. It would make all of this so much simpler. But he remembered his father's favoured lieutenant from when he was just a boy, he remembered the many fencing lessons Piett had given him when Luke was meant to be studying etiquette, or waiting for Leia to finish her arithmetic classes…

Piett evidently remembered him, too.

And remembered enough to cut down his defence on the battlefield with ease, bringing him to his knees and capturing him in a few embarrassingly short minutes. Lord Vader had taught him well.

And now Luke was paying the price.

His clothes had been built for battle, so they weren't too fine anyway, but he was still very aware of the amount of mud, blood—most of it not his own; he was not known as the warrior prince for no reason—and other substances that coated his tunic and breeches. His feet ached from the long trek, his hands chafed against the bonds. It had been three days since they'd started walking, with brief breaks to sleep at night, but still they stumbled on.

Piett sighed. "Sir, we need to get him on a horse."

"What!? You want to give the insurgent prisoner—"

"Lord Vader will want to talk to him the moment we arrive. He shouldn't be collapsing to the ground immediately."

Ozzel grunted, but he said: "Get him on the horse."

* * *

Being on the horse gave him a better view of everything, and that… helped, to an extent. There was more green around Theed than he'd expected, so the Empire— _Vader_ , more specifically—hadn't followed the continuing theme of burning and salting the fields of all the lands they captured in punishment for their rebellion. Perhaps that was because Naboo was one of the most fertile areas in the region, and destroying that sort of land would see the vineyards and the wheat fields turned to nothing but ash, of no use to anyone.

That had to be why. Luke couldn't think of any other reason.

Still, the shining towers of Theed _were_ smeared with soot, the closer he got to them; that made sense. The battle had been fierce, and he remembered the despair he'd felt when Captain Typho had forced him, Leia and their mother to flee the city before all fell. The fires from the flaming arrows had raged, the catapults had crushed the walls… it had been such a long, hard siege.

It had been a siege they had lost.

It had not seen the same devastation Aldera had—the look in Bail's eyes on the day he'd described it still haunted Luke—but even so: when news had spread that even Theed had fallen... so many had given up.

How much worse would it be when Luke was executed?

Luke eyed the vineyards outside the city walls, as the road wound into them farther. The climbing vines obscured their trellises and burst with fruit, like complex curtains after curtains; if he could get away, even with his hands bound he would be able to hide in there, hopefully make some escape—

Piett moved from walking on Luke's right to his left, giving him a stern look. His hand hovered on the pommel of his sword.

Pleas hovered on Luke's tongue; he considered just outright _asking_ , begging Piett, his old mentor, to let him go. But no. The fact he was in the Imperial Army at all said everything it needed to about Piett's loyalties: they were to the Empire, and Lord Vader, alone. Not to the young, captured prince of a small queendom.

The vineyards ended and the fields began—empty fields, the last Luke had seen of them, but now clogged with military tents after military tents, crowding the road. There was a makeshift checkpoint of two stands and men on horses who'd constructed a gate across the road; Piett tugged on the reins of Luke's horse as Ozzel and the rest of the procession slowed to a halt in front of it.

"State your names and business, and why Lord Vader should let you into Theed," said the bored guard, though he did seem to be eyeing the procession with some interest. Luke in particular—not many people got to be important enough to ride in a military procession by the time they were aged twenty.

Ozzel opened his mouth but Piett cut him off. "Inform Lord Vader that Major Piett reports the Battle of Hoth has been won, and we have a prisoner of interest to him."

Luke frowned. Ozzel glared at Piett for interrupting him, but Luke was too busy wondering _why_ he'd interrupted to be amused by it. Ozzel was above Piett; if Vader had assigned Piett to serve him here, he should be making the report, he should have said who their prisoner was and why he was of interest, but—

Piett had interrupted to stop that.

Why?

Why would he—

The guard—and a lot of the other soldiers milling about, Luke noticed, too many for comfort—gave him a curious look, then opened the gate.

"It's an honour, Major Piett," the guard said, still addressing Piett and not Ozzel. "Go and give Lord Vader his prize."

Luke clenched his jaw.

Then they were through the checkpoint, then another checkpoint—more reports, more staring—then another, until the final one yielded before them and the silver gates of Theed swung open to let them pass. Luke looked up at those tall spokes with unease.

They were such a symbol of Naboo—all of this was. Theed, the gleaming gates, the domes and the spires, the intricate designs on the buildings… It was _wrong_ to pass through his childhood home as a stranger, an enemy, hands bound and watched like a hawk.

Soot stained the walls. The road was still uneven and cracked from the battle; he could hear the supply wagons rattling and groaning on the cobblestones. He grimaced when something—was that an _explosives cart?_ —tipped over and he heard bangs echo.

He hoped no one was hurt.

But the farther he got into the city, the more things started to change. He frowned when he saw the first team of troopers rebuilding the road—they were doing a hideous job of the beautiful cobblestones Naboo was known for, but when the procession clopped over it, it was nonetheless smooth and whole. The fronts of the ornate buildings were being cleaned off to perfection, their stonework polished and scrubbed…

He never, not once, however, saw actual civilians in the streets.

They were hiding inside, then. Or fled. Or imprisoned.

Or executed.

He swallowed and tried not to think about it.

The Palace came up in front of them far too quickly and far too slowly. Piett let Luke dismount, though his hands were still tied, and he was led very quickly through the stables, through the servants' corridors, until—

"Halt."

Luke was so busy taking in the sights of his home around him, the winding servants' corridors he and Leia had played hide and seek in for years shifting to the richly carpeted, richly decorated main corridors, that he was more taken in by the fact they'd reached the main hall, with the vast sweeping staircases, the deep red drapes and intricate banisters…

He barely noticed the guards at the base of the stairs, dressed in the black armour of one of Lord Vader's knights, who lifted their swords at the approach of unauthorised footsteps.

"Major Piett," Piett reported to the guard on the right immediately. "I have a prisoner to present to Lord Vader at once."

"Any hostages or tools, Lord Vader will come to meet in the dungeons at his earliest possible convenience—" The guard turned their helmet towards the prisoner and froze mid-sentence. Luke shivered, suddenly, glaring.

The guard lifted their head to something above them. Luke tilted his head to follow his gaze, and…

Found the massive portrait that hung above the double doors.

It was a more recent one, from the last few years—it showed Queen Amidala, resplendent in a crimson gown, the Crown Princess Leia on her right in white, and then Luke on her left, wearing a blue frock coat and black boots polished to perfection. It was an impressive likeness, with an impressive amount of both intimacy and grandeur—Palo, the painter, was an old friend of his mother's, and it showed.

Luke gritted his teeth when he turned back to the guard, well aware he was being stared at.

Even covered in filth as he was, it was hard not to recognise the prince from _that_ —and, considering that Piett had just returned from an engagement with Luke and Uncle Ben's forces at Hoth, it was hard not to realise _why_ he was here.

"Go straight up," the guard said. "Lord Vader is in the war room."

Piett hesitated. "In a meeting?"

"Go straight up," the guard repeated, turning his unsettling gaze back on Luke.

Piett said nothing, just took hold of Luke's shoulder and guided him up the stairs.

He'd walked these stairs so many times; it took more self-restraint to only take the steps one at a time, rather than to keep walking altogether. He was _so used_ to dashing around these corridors, to play-fighting his sister and leaping up the steps two or three at a time, unwittingly terrorising the poor staff who traversed them in a more stately pace, sliding down the banisters…

The banisters…

He shot a look at the banister. He could do it. If Piett was distracted, he could make a dive, slide down… he knew the seamstresses' quarters were near here, or the kitchens; he could grab some scissors or a knife and get the ropes off his wrists, and then it would be a matter for the Imperials to try to catch a boy in his own castle, where he knew the ground better than anyone…

Piett seemed to be able to tell what he was thinking.

He tightened his grip on Luke's shoulder, and took his other hand to hold the rope binding Luke's hands, gently. He scowled, looked up to tell the man exactly what he thought, imagining he had the same courage and sass as his sister—

Then he saw something that made him stumble.

There ought to be a big painting of a dog, there. An old labrador that had belonged to one of Luke's ancestors, that he and Leia used to pretend was alive and that they could play with. It had been taken down by the invaders, left to the side where he could see scorch marks and sword slashes had marred its canvas surface.

In its place was a family portrait from about twelve years ago.

It wasn't like the one in the main hall—that one was meant to be stately. This one… was more familial, more cheerful, with a young Luke and Leia with their arms around each other, their mother sitting on a futon behind them, and standing behind them all, one hand on Padmé's shoulder and one hand on Leia's…

Luke swallowed.

He hadn't seen his father in ten years. Not since he had been called away to fight for Palpatine's expanding Empire and Queen Jobal of Naboo had pledged to resist it. At the time that painting had been created, his mother had been a princess, fourth-in-line for the throne; Luke had had a grandmother, an aunt, and two cousins.

Now his grandmother was dead, his aunt had been the leader of his very company before she'd been slain in battle, and then his cousins had vanished. Either they were missing, or…

He didn't know.

He just knew that in the ensuing chaos, after Anakin Skywalker, the Lord of Vader, had caused so much death and destruction through the lands of Naboo's allies, he had not been welcomed back.

So now, he had forgone the welcome, and returned by force.

Luke cast a glance around. There had been a lot of portraits of him and Leia painted over the years, and as Piett made him keep walking, up to the third floor where he knew the war rooms lined the main corridor, it seemed that most of them had been taken out of storage and hung in the most obvious places. Luke saw his own growing face reflected back at him as they climbed, until they reached the war corridor, and it was bleak.

This place had always been bedecked in black, only the dullest of carvings; it was a place of misery, his mother had always said, not beauty or joy. His mood plummeted just stepping into it, and plummeted even more when he saw light shining out from under the door to the biggest room—heard raised voices.

"I simply think that to cause a little more destruction would send a clear message that no place is safe for rebellious scum, Lord Vader—"

"I do not intend to raze Naboo's fields, General. That is my final verdict."

Luke flinched when he heard that voice—loud, booming, like… like something from hell itself.

In particular because it was _familiar_ , and yet not at all.

"They are too economically useful to waste."

Of course. They were talking about destruction.

"My lord—"

"Is there an _issue_ , General?"

The words were hissed, low and deadly—even here, out of sight, Luke shivered.

That was his father.

That was the man who had never come back for him.

That was the man who had become a military monster

The general backtracked within moments. "No, my lord."

"Good. Then we can move onto the reports from Hoth." Piett picked up the pace, then, dragging Luke forwards faster, his footsteps more clipped, and Vader paused. "Or, if that is Major Piett approaching, then we can ask him how the battle went directly."

Luke gaped—at the door, then at Piett, who smirked slightly. Piett had served Vader for years, Luke knew that intimately, but— but—

_But…_

A thought struck him.

If Vader trusted Piett so implicitly, why assign him to the small excursions like Hoth, like Yavin—why bother? Luke's company was significantly less of a threat than the one from Alderaan, or the one Panaka and Bibble led, or any others—but it was always Piett Luke saw on the other side of the battlefield, always Piett or Vader who came to face him and he was forced to escape from—

Or perhaps that was a line of thought he didn't want to delve too deep into.

Piett strode forwards to finally open the door and dragged Luke with him. "Keep your face down," he hissed, "but keep eye contact with Lord Vader."

Then they were inside.

Luke did his best to keep his face down, but he saw enough just from darting his eyes around to stand there and fume. The Imperial flag hung above the fireplace, the map of the continent marked in red and blue, the gaggle of cruel, brutal officers gathered around it dictating war and death—

He especially hated the slight smirk, identical to Piett's, on his father's face as he asked, not even looking up, "Your report, Major?"

"The Battle of Hoth was a victory, my lord," Piett replied smoothly. "In every sense."

Vader's head snapped up at those words, so fast Luke's neck twinged just looking at it.

He fixed his gaze on Luke, and the storm of emotions that twitched his lips, crinkled his eyes, was far, far too complex for Luke to hope to sort out.

Vader said to his generals, "You are dismissed."

The generals glanced, confused, between Vader and Piett… and then to the small, unassuming man standing beside him.

They all glanced at a portrait on the wall—another portrait. It was a long tradition for the warrior nobility of Naboo to have a portrait in the war council room, and Luke was no exception; he hung there, beside his aunt's likeness, and they stared from the portrait to him.

Vader repeated, a sharp bite in his voice, "You. Are. Dismissed."

They scurried like rats.

"Is there anything important you need to report to me immediately, Piett?" Vader asked, not taking his eyes off Luke for a moment.

"General Kenobi escaped despite His Highness's capture and has not attempted to rescue him at this time. The battle was won cleanly, but the price was steep and the Rebels fled into the mountains, where my men are pursuing them now with little hope to find them."

"That mountain range is infested; we have no hope of finding them and it is unwise to think otherwise." Vader stood from his chair, still _staring_ , and Luke had to glance away. The rug in front of the fire had been soiled by muddy boots. "If there is nothing else, you are dismissed. Leave the prince."

Piett let go of his shoulder and was gone before Luke could process anything that was happening at all.

He held his breath and refused to look, even as he could hear Vader round the table to approach him.

"Luke," he breathed.

Luke glanced up. He was nearer than he thought, barely two paces away. Once his eyes landed on him he couldn't tear them away—something he suspected was a mutual state of affairs, from Vader's unwavering gaze—and he took in his father for the first time in over ten years.

He'd seen military portraits, sketches on bounties, prints of caricatures circulated about him as propaganda, of course. He knew about his infamous armour and the helmet—who didn't?—that he could see tucked under his arm. His hair was shorn short, close to his head.

That was strange; in Naboo it was tradition to wear hair long, unless one was in the military, and even then Luke's hair was as short as it should go, far too loose for most Imperial regulations. He remembered his father having hair as long and braided as his sister's, he remembered plaiting small flowers into it…

He shook his head; no. That… that wouldn't help to think about now, not with Vader coming ever closer, close enough that Luke could see his own reflection in his polished black breastplate, every footfall in his heavy, nailed boots like thunder.

Luke's hands were still bound but he backed off, his breath quickening, stumbling back. He saw a frown crease the entranced expression on Vader's face.

"Luke?" he asked. "Young one—"

"Don't," Luke said. "Don't— don't call me that. Don't come near me."

Vader didn't listen, and Luke had backed up all the way to the fireplace. He tripped on the raised hearth in front of it and knocked back, just barely catching himself before he cracked his head open on the mantelpiece.

A breeze stirred through the room, taking hold of the Imperial flag that hung there. The fabric tickled Luke's cheek.

Vader took advantage of Luke's moment of distraction to reach out a heavy hand and rest it on his shoulder, his grip gentle but firm. Then his other hand came up to brush his cheek.

"Do you not remember me?" Vader said.

_"Of course I do_ , Fa— Vader," Luke bit back. Vader narrowed his blue eyes—and that was a surprise; Luke knew his father had blue eyes, but all the images of him he'd seen recently had him with a vicious gold—at the correction. His jaw clenched.

Luke was suddenly very aware of the fact that his father was making exactly the same expression he always did when he was upset.

Not angry. Upset.

"Then do I simply not mean anything to you?" Vader continued, voice forcefully level. He glanced down, frowned at Luke's bound hands, and untied them in a few sharp motions. Luke let out a sigh as the ropes fell away.

He met Vader's gaze. "Of course you do," he said softly. "But… you _left_."

A pang of pain passed over Vader's face as he turned away and growled, "It was not by choice."

Luke stared—grateful for the extra distance, but… "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"You are injured," Vader said. "How? Who hurt you?"

_What?_ "You just sent your army to annihilate mine!" he snapped. He'd forgotten about the scratches on his face, the limp in his leg. It wasn't anything _bad_ , but… "Of course I'm _injured_ , that's what happens when you're facing one hundred men for each of your own—"

"Of course. You go into the battles to fight yourself." Vader was still facing away from Luke, staring down at his sword and grimacing. "That is not the role of a prince—Kenobi should not be allowing you to risk your life so foolishly."

"It wasn't Ben who authorised it and you know it. Mother—"

"Then she is a fool as well." But he sounded less sure of himself, the scorn in his voice dwindling to a quiet reverence.

"I'm the warrior. It's my _role_ to go into battle," Luke pressed. "But I wouldn't have to go into any battles at all if you didn't constantly make war on us—"

"This war was not of my making!"

"No. It was of your precious Emperor's."

Vader whirled on him. "He is my mentor," he hissed. "I am his heir. To have refused his summons would have been tantamount to treason, it would have endangered you, your sister, your mother—I was going to convince him to cease hostilities against Naboo, and then your idiotic grandmother _banished me_ for it—"

"Only after you committed _war crimes_!"

"I did not leave you by choice, Luke," Vader insisted. "I left because I was summoned, a summons I had obeyed a thousand times before, and then I was barred from returning. I returned to you as soon as I could."

Luke gave him an astonished look.

Then he took in the whole room. The Imperial flag, the soot still staining Vader's armour, his own red wrists—the view out the broad window opposite him, of Theed still in ruins.

"You returned to us by _invading_?" he asked quietly.

"There was no other way—"

"To hell with that! You could've left the Empire!"

"The Emperor would not have simply allowed me to go—"

"And why does he matter? What has he—"

"He gave me _everything_ , Luke," Vader hissed. "I have no attachment to him, he is a cruel and sadistic person, but his views on one Empire ruling this continent are _right_ and the best way to ensure a decent leader takes over from him once he has achieved it is from the inside. I am his heir—he would have hunted and captured and executed me if I had tried to defect, but from his side I could have protected Naboo—all Jobal had to do was swear her allegiance to the Empire and you would all be _safe_ —"

"Support your Empire? What would that have meant for us? What would that have meant for our allies? You—"

"It would have been what was _best_ for you and your allies, rather than resisting the expansion with this fruitless war—"

"You are the one who's been driving this war!" Luke cried out. "You— _You_ caused all the destruction, you attacked Geonosis and kicked it all off—"

"I was under orders. I was trying to be gentle—"

_"Try telling that to the people you left homeless and_ dead _!"_

Luke didn't realise how loud he'd shouted until he was gasping for breath, his throat sore—he shut his mouth abruptly, not liking the way tears prickled at the back of his eyes.

"Father," he said—he didn't say it affectionately, nor gently, nor even without harshness, but the word itself struck Vader like a blow. "Whether Palpatine ordered you to do it or not, this is a war of your own making."

Vader clenched his jaw—and there. There were the infamous gold eyes from all the stories and paintings and caricatures.

They seemed just as terrifying as they did then, but Luke had courage now.

"That is why Grandmother banished you, had you declared an enemy," he continued fiercely. "That is why Aunt Sola continued the banishment. And why would Mother pardon you once she became queen, when it's your fault her sister and mother died?"

_That_ seemed to bring him up short.

"I never intended to hurt any of you, Luke," he murmured, taking a step closer again. This time, Luke didn't push him away—leaned into his father's hand when it cupped his cheek.

His father was a fool. He was _delusional_.

But Luke had missed him so much.

"That was the opposite of my intent," Vader promised. "Naboo was going to be safe. I… I knew that Palpatine wanted to conquer the continent even before I married your mother, and when I married her I _swore_ to protect her from that. Naboo would be safe—the crown jewel, the most beautiful kingdom the Empire could claim to rule over, the safest and most vibrant place for the most wonderful woman. Her mother was a just queen, her sister would rule, and she would have most of her time free to pursue other interests and engage in the diplomatic and charitable work she so loved. And the moment you and Leia were born, I swore I would protect you two from the scourge too."

He dropped his hand from Luke's face to tilt Luke's chin up. Luke lifted his gaze to meet his intense blue eyes.

"You would be the Prince and Princess of Naboo, only fifth or sixth in line for this throne—but you were second to the throne of the Empire."

Luke blinked.

"This war is important. The Empire will have this continent, and then _I will give it to you_. I am Palpatine's heir—once he dies, it will be mine to do with as I please. Once he dies, you will be Emperor."

Luke stared.

And then he slowly backed away.

"Father…"

Vader followed the motion. "No. This is your destiny. This is _everything_ —from the moment you were born, I knew this would be what you deserved. I wage this war so I can give you the crown, I came to Theed—"

"You _invaded_ Theed!"

"—to find you again, but you all fled—"

"Of course we did! You were _tossing massive rocks at us_! You had us under siege for _months_!"

Vader tilted his head to inspect Luke. "You are far too skinny for it."

Luke batted his hand away. "I _wonder why_!"

He took a step towards the door. He saw his father's eyes narrow, glancing between the tightly shut door and Luke's wary face, but there was no need for him to worry; Luke was fairly sure Piett had locked that door before he left, with a key Vader probably had, and even if he _could_ get out of the room, how was he supposed to get all the way out of the castle and to freedom?

"Enough of this," Vader snapped. "How is… tell me…" He paused, took a deep breath, and looked at Luke. "Tell me about your mother—your sister. Are they well? Are they…?"

He trailed off. He clearly didn't know how to finish his sentence.

Luke could relate; he didn't even know how to _start_ his.

"They… She…" He tried again. "Leia is well. She hates the war, hates the Empire, but I think political action is what she thrives on. She's tired all the time, but she never loses that spark." _Never stops worrying about me, either_ , he thought to himself—then immediately pushed away the thought that followed on its heels. _What has she heard about my capture…?_

"The… portraits…" Vader said awkwardly, turning toward the mantelpiece. Luke blinked when he noticed what he'd missed completely before: there were small paint studies of the royal family clustered on the shelf, each about the length of his hand. They… they had originally been in the drawing room, if he remembered correctly; they'd rattled on the shelf when the family had sat in there during the siege and the rocks had been flung at the city walls.

On top of everything else, Vader was _redecorating_?

Or did he just want his family's visages where he could see them at all times?

Vader leant forwards to study them each now, his thumb rubbing the polished bronze frame with the gentlest of touches—Padmé's regal gaze and hair netted with pearls, still a pacifist princess; Leia, aged fourteen and growing, both soft and fierce at the same time; Luke, also fourteen, awkward in his too-large uniform but smiling for the painter as best he could despite the solemn gravitas his relatives' portraits held.

Luke had been forced to sit still so many times over the years, painted and beheld and observed ever more intently. He hadn't realised how many paintings that produced until Vader had unearthed them all from storage for himself to look at.

"You have both grown into fine young people," Vader observed with a touch of melancholy.

Luke couldn't help but observe, "We had good role models in the palace."

Vader's hand restricted, clenched, but he retracted it before he damaged the miniature of Luke's mother, who still gazed serenely into the distance.

"And Padmé?" he asked. "How is she?"

Luke's chest seized up again.

"Mother is… well," he hedged. "As well as possible, I suppose, when she inherited a throne after her mother and sister were killed in a senseless war and she was forced to nullify her marriage due to her husband being exiled for war crimes."

"Exiled," Vader said. Then, with more ferocity, _"Nullify our marriage?"_

"You were exiled," Luke snapped. "It's an old law. Either she ends the marriage and stops associating with you, or joins you in exile. She wasn't about to do _that_."

"She is my _wife_ ," he seethed back. "I still love her—"

"And I'm sure she still loves you. Provided you don't burn everything else she loves to the ground." Luke glanced around.

Vader backed down.

"I have no intention of burning anything, young one," Vader assured him. "Not homes, not bridges… and certainly not our palace."

"You mean that?" Luke knew his scepticism was on full show for anyone to see.

Vader nodded curtly. "I do. I…" He gritted his teeth and appeared to grapple with himself for a moment, before—"I… apologise for the methods I have used thus far. I know they have upset you—"

"They've killed thousands of people."

"All I want," Vader said, "is to be a _family_."

"What you want," Luke shot back, "is a crown forged in blood."

Vader hesitated for a moment, startled. "What do _you_ want?"

"Oh, is this about my wishes now?" He couldn't help the bitter words. "After everything you've done, and claimed it was in my name, I doubt that."

"Luke—"

"I don't want a warmonger for a father," he said. "I am the warrior of the family, but _I don't want war_. I want the Empire to retreat back behind Coruscant's walls, I want peace, I want—"

He dropped his head.

Scuffed his boot against the floor.

"I want you home," he whispered, and if only he hadn't sounded so pathetic as he said it. "I want my father back. But not if you'll only bring violence and blood."

Vader said, "I am home, Luke."

"And you brought everything I didn't want with you."

"I have brought you _an empire!_ " he roared. Luke refused to flinch. "Is there—"

"None of us want it. Get that into your head. We don't want your empire. We have been suffering _because of_ your empire. I hope the Emperor _dies_ —"

"I can arrange that."

What.

Luke snapped his gaze up to his father's. It was focused, blue and intense. "What did you say?"

"I told you that I intended for you to have the Empire. I did not mean in the far future."

_What_.

"He's your mentor," Luke said carefully. "He's why you've done all of this. You're his loyal ward and general. Why—"

"Luke, have you not listened to anything in this conversation?" Vader said—and he said it _gently_. That was what was so painful. He said it painstakingly gently. "He is not the reason I did all of this. _You_ are."

His hand came up to cradle Luke's cheek again. Luke, frozen where he stood, did not react. But… it wasn't unwelcome.

"Leia. Your mother." He brushed a thumb over his cheek. "You."

Luke closed his eyes. A tear slid down his cheek.

"In that case," he choked out.

"Can we be the reason you stop?"

* * *

The rain was coming down in sheets, and Luke was shaking violently on horseback by the time the manor was in sight. He could feel Vader's heavy gaze on him but didn't meet his eye, keeping himself focused on their destination. They needed to get to that manor. The horses churned the wet road to mud under their shoes.

Still—he felt his father, riding just on his left, reach over to shrug a cloak around Luke's shoulders. He grasped for it too late, and they were too far apart; the wind seized it and whipped it away into the night.

Vader grunted in displeasure. Luke just shivered more—it was a cold wind that had done that.

Vader unbuttoned his jacket, until he was sitting in the driving rain and hail in just his shirt, and offered it to Luke in a clenched fist. The horses still thundered forwards, neck in neck, but his father's balance was steady.

Luke looked at him in shock. Vader smiled in the dim light of the lanterns.

Luke reached for the jacket.

"Have you got a good grip?" Vader called.

"Yeah."

Vader let go, and Luke wrapped it around himself, instantly warming up, casting a side glance at his father. At first his shirt was white, and seemed to gleam on him, against all the black he wore. Then the rain shredded it to translucency.

"Are you not cold?" Luke called, even as they started to crest the hill the manor was on. Vader said nothing.

Just inclined his head towards his son.

Luke smiled to himself.

They reached the manor quickly after, and the stable hand ushered them in out of the rain with small, flurrying hand motions she'd been using since Luke was a child. She did look at Vader and give him a strange look, doing a double take, but she did not comment on it.

Luke, she beamed at.

"I'm so glad to know you're safe, Your Highness," she said warmly, gesturing him inside and handing him a towel. He scuffed some of the water off his head and face, shrugging off Vader's jacket and his own long green coat, dark with damp. She took them from him and hung them on the hooks just inside the doors to the manor proper.

"Listen—" Vader began, but Luke cut him off.

"You understand this is of the utmost secrecy, don't you?" He reached out a hand and clasped hers in his own, giving it a squeeze.

"Of course. No one should know what's discussed here, or that any of you…" Her eyes flitted to Vader, and—surprisingly—narrowed. "…were here at all. But I'm glad you decided to drop by and visit."

"It was a good place for this meeting," he said. "Isolated. Out of the way. Close enough to get to quickly. And I knew we could trust you."

"To keep the manor in order or to keep your secrets, little prince?" she teased.

He smiled. "Why not both?"

She laughed and waved him forwards. "You know they're desperate to see you."

Luke bowed his head, and kept moving forwards.

Up the stairs, through the corridors that felt just as homely, if less stately, than the ones from the palace. The Varykino Manor had been a wedding gift from his grandmother to his mother, a place for the then-princess to lie low and enjoy herself, overlooking one of the most beautiful lakes in the queendom. The walls were decorated with things Padmé loved, not things that her courtiers wanted to see: the exquisite oil paintings of the landscape were outnumbered by Luke and Leia's artworks from childhood, the colour scheme had all her favourite shades of red and blue, and her hand was evident in even the flowering patterns of the carpet.

Vader followed Luke slowly—shyly, almost. He seemed overwhelmed by being back here, in Padmé's inner sanctum, after so long.

Luke had no such reservations.

He reached the stairs and jogged up them, taking them two at a time. Leia and his mother would be in the drawing room, he knew, they were right above his head and they were waiting for him, and—

The sound of his footsteps clearly alerted them. He heard a saucer rattle as someone put their teacup down too forcefully, heard someone jump up, and then he could _see_ , he was in the doorway, and Leia and Padmé were staring at him.

_"Luke!"_

Leia barrelled into him; he'd barely had the chance to step away from the stairs so she didn't send them both toppling, staggering along the corridor with his sister in his arms. He buried his face in her shoulder.

"I hate you," Leia told him.

"The feeling is mutual," he shot back.

Leia pulled back and grabbed his hand, and indeed, there was a furious amount of anger in her face as she looked him in the eye.

"You have a lot to answer for," she warned, before dragging him back into the drawing room.

He distantly noticed his father, standing in shock at the bottom of the stairs staring up at them, before he was in and next to his mother.

She reached for him the moment he was in range and he reached back, surprised at how emotional he felt. She… he hadn't seen either of them in weeks, he realised, months. Since the siege ended and they'd fled, the war had been hard; they'd spent so much time on the move, beating back the Empire, that he hadn't had the chance to run a _diplomatic report_ to the diplomats of the family.

And then he'd been captured.

He hugged his mother tighter, feeling her tremble slightly, and breathed in the familiar scent of her perfume. She… she was here.

He'd missed her.

"Why did you call us here?" she asked shrewdly. She was looking at him, looking at the clothes he was wearing—taken right from his wardrobe in the Palace. She raised an eyebrow.

She knew exactly why Luke had contacted them and asked them to come here.

"He wants to help us," he promised her, and ignored the way her hand squeezed his tightly.

She was afraid. Afraid to hope, afraid to care, afraid to risk everything for a husband who had disappointed her beyond measure.

She just didn't dare to show it.

Even when Vader finally appeared at the doorway, taking in the sight of the drawing room, of the portraits hung on the walls… Leia, standing behind the sofa with her hand knotted tightly into the cushion… Padmé, still clinging onto Luke's hand with a strength he couldn't believe…

His mother patted his fingers, then let go, and stood.

"Father," Luke said. "Tell them why you're here."

Vader was silent for a moment, and Luke took that moment to appreciate how… odd… he looked. His shirt was still soaked to the bone, clinging to his chest; his boots were scrubbed of mud but they were still heavy, intimidating ones, the sort one would expect on a feared military leader; and his short, dark gold hair had been fussed over obsessively and nervously before the ride, only to be reduced by the rain into a spiky muddy paste.

He was a fearsome man… but he seemed _so ill at ease_ among the comfortable domesticity of the drawing room. He squirmed under their gazes.

"Luke…" Vader started, then cut himself off. "I… _Padmé…_ "

"I know you're not one for words, Anakin," Padmé said; Vader flinched at hearing her voice. Stared at her in something akin to awe as she straightened up, stepped forwards, and lifted her chin. She wasn't dressed in one of her queenly ornate gowns, or even anything overtly fancy; neither of them were. Leia was wearing _riding gear_. But Padmé managed to look regal and terrifying even in the simple, flowing green dress she had on. "So, I'll do the talking, and you can show me what you mean with actions."

Vader nodded, not taking his eyes off of her for a second. Leia leant forwards against the sofa to pinch Luke's shoulder, shooting him a terse, questioning look. He gave her an equally urgent one in return.

"Are you here to give up the Empire?" she asked. "I assume you convinced Luke because you said you wanted to come back. Are you willing to give up everything: Palpatine, the Empire, and your men, in order to do so? I am the Queen of Naboo. I will not remarry the Emperor's heir, and I will not surrender Naboo to the Empire's folds."

Vader clenched his jaw. Luke almost felt sorry for him.

He'd fought so hard, for so many years, to give them something they had never wanted.

But that was the truth, and that did not mean he had to keep fighting for it.

"I am here to be by your side," Vader said. "In any capacity you want me to be." His gaze grazed over Luke and Leia again, and the longing there nearly bowled Luke over.

Vader stepped forwards. He was a good head taller than Padmé, and when she tilted her head back to look at him, she saw something in his gentling face that made her smile, open-mouthed.

He took her hands. She extracted one of her hands from the grip to brush his cheek.

"Your side," Vader promised. "Not Palpatine's."

Her eyes crinkled. She glanced at his lips for a moment before steel shuttered her face again, and she composed herself.

"I'm very glad to hear that," she said. "And… we should talk business. The ramifications of this, political _and_ military, will be vast, we need to have a plan, there needs to be some sort of atonement… Will your men defect, the loyal ones, or just you? Will you send a letter? Will you…"

She stopped. Laughed, to herself. Then she smiled.

"But that's for later," she said, her voice falling to a whisper. Vader leaned forwards to hear what she was saying. "For now…"

She pressed her forehead against his. Their noses bumped against each other, and Luke looked away just before she said…

"Welcome home."


End file.
